Once crying skies and frantic lines lie deadened.
Stillness impalpable force the noise of memory back into mortality.
They shift each silent stare into a glaze of disfocus, then back, and glaze, and back, then glaze again.
Haunting, it streaks against the stream of consciousness where-
Seemingly chipped leftovers float below the surface,
Melding crimson blood with the nothingness above.
The sound of a blink or the turn of an ear permeate all knowing now.
Thoughts struggle in stasis for birth, to be born, to cry and be heard, to breathe and to die from want, to gasp and suffer life...
But no grave stirring breaks from this face.
No jazz resounding, no interludes, no orchestra concerto.
Emotions rudely snore from a cavity of soundlessness,
Of mindlessness, noiseless beat.
The Sanctuary, on which the trudging compressions of Commune solemnly stamp down upon, fascinate the few that circulate, vulture-like.
Pit patter dewdrops of laced conversation string souls of desperation delicately together.
Pressure's cooking.
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